Photography
by twounderscorethreefour
Summary: If anything, a significantly redeeming quality of mine is my ability to capture memories. I'm never without my camera, and I'll take candid shots when people aren't looking, which is what I aimed to do at Eric Cartman's party. Esther-centric. Slash.
1. Uncommon

Nobody ever uses Esther. I like her a lot because, again, she's a blank face and I can do what I want with her.

Yay.

* * *

I hate my arms.

They're thin and pasty, olive toned and tinted grey. Milk white scars and faded scratches are scattered across my complexion, a result of consistent needless self harm. You can see every bone and tendon jutting out, my wrist not even measuring six inches around. Blue veins and a few stray freckles stand out among other blemishes, and they're hideous.

I cut my cuticles with an x-acto knife and scrape off dead skin around my fingernails. They're always painted in a particularly outrageous fashion to draw attention away from the bright pink, irritated skin and small, peeling wounds. Nobody notices.

I don't wear lip gloss, because I'm constantly biting my lip. When I'm nervous or embarrassed, I bite things. Hard. I often abstain from biting pens, because the thought of saliva coating something I touch regularly is kind of revolting. Until I turned twelve – five years ago – I would bite my nails into bloody nubs, but the varnish that coats them is thankfully an affective repellent.

My teeth are stained yellow from the copious amounts of coffee that I ingest. It allows me to stay awake in the morning after every night of restless turning and pondering. Combined with a daily prescribed dose of Adderall, I'm rendered frighteningly jittery, always bouncing my leg or tapping my fingers. When I smile, I try not to show my teeth.

I cut my hair by myself, and if I don't keep it at chin-length, it falls out in clumps. I dye it black – dark blue – dark purple. Whatever. Every three weeks I stain it with chemicals and dry it out further, but for the first few days it's vibrant and shiny.

My confidence skyrockets during those days, and plummets when the remains of fresh hair dye are squeezed from my wiry tresses.

I don't often make eye contact. Sometimes because I forget to, other times I'm too distracted or fidgeting with my phone. My eyes are big and almond shaped, and the color of almonds as well. An average shade of brown. My bangs are too long for anyone to see my eyebrows, which is convenient because I don't have to constantly pluck them.

I don't always shave my legs, because I rarely wear anything to show them off. They're even lighter than my arms, a pale yellow-white. Dry; thin; frail. I can cross my legs twice – I'll have my calves wrapped around each other with my ankles crossed, one foot on the ground, bouncing it quickly in a state of anxiety.

When I sit in a desk, I pull my legs up to my chest and sit with my chin on my knees. It's cramped but incredibly comfortable, the way I fold myself up. I guess I kind of like how I'm small enough to fit. I'm not exceedingly short – five foot three – but little enough for people to notice.

Well. If they notice at all.

I'm almost embarrassingly awkward. I can keep up a conversation well enough, but I doubt any discussion with me would be particularly memorable.

And I guess that's alright, because I don't have to worry about social anxiety. I'm not saying I'm invisible; no, I'm sure people know who I am. At least, I like to think so. The thought that I might be remembered if I died is predictably comforting.

If anything, a significantly redeeming quality of mine is my ability to capture memories. I'm never without my camera, and I'll take candid shots when people aren't looking. The majority of them turn out exceedingly well. My photos are something I'm proud of. Every night, I upload them to my website. If anybody looks at them, I wouldn't know. Nobody really mentions it. What I like most is that there aren't any pictures of me. I take the best pictures of I remain inconspicuous.

Do you know who I am?

* * *

THIS IS NOT AN ORIGINAL CHARACTER THIS IS ESTHER.

But I will be accepting OCs. I've got a very vague idea of what I want to do with this story, so go ahead and send them in. Tell me what you thought here, too. But I won't be taking every OC I'm given - when a story is overflowing with characters, it tends to be overwhelming and cluttered. I don't want that. I'll use the characters that I think I can work with best.

Also, this story will have _slash_. Because I'm a gay-loving slashwhore and het is boring. Sorry. If that's not your thing, don't bother sending anyone in. Another pet peeve of mine is when OC stories take away from the primary characters that are actually canon. The slash won't be ridiculous or smutty, but it will be present. If it bothers you, don't read. Simple.

If you'd like your OC to have a crush/boyfriend/girlfriend/best friend, feel free to mention it. I might oblige to your request and I might not. Just because there's slash doesn't limit your options; I'd like you to be surprised.

Alright, that's enough ranting. Right? Okay, so GET TO IT.


	2. Instant Visibility

Important! The OC submission is **closed**. I've got enough to work with now, and I love all of you A LOT for submitting your lovely characters. Even those of you who didn't submit, thanks so much for reading! You rock.

TIME FOR CLARIFICATION. Again. I'm not using an OC. Esther is a _canon character_ and has appeared _on the show_ numerous times. Her personality and background are extremely vague, so I'm morphing her to be however I want. In case I wasn't entirely clear earlier, the story is from her point of view.

Also! Thank you for the OCs, everybody, and showing any interest in this. Just a reminder, the OCs will not be nearly as prominent as the canon characters – but I'm definitely going to incorporate them into the story. Crucial roles and whatever, and I'll leave this chapter as a bit of an introduction. But the plot itself will be based around the others. Know what I'm sayin?

I'm only going to have about five or six chapters. I'm tired of writing longlonglong shit.

* * *

I don't particularly favor Eric Cartman. He makes me uncomfortable. But he really does have a nice house. It's very inviting and well furnished, with a plethora of expensive and entertaining merchandise (you know – like video games and an air hockey table).

I wouldn't have known this had I not gone to a party he was hosting last Friday night. Eric doesn't often invite people over, which, I've deducted, is because he doesn't like to share. But he does like to brag. And what better opportunity than to show off his new seventy-two inch plasma screen television?

I wasn't planning on going, simply because I wasn't necessarily close to the majority of the people there. Stan and Kyle, Token, Clyde, Craig, Tweek, Kenny, Butters, Wendy – you know; the usual. I don't have a problem with any of Eric's guests, but I've rarely spoken to any of them… although I do happen to have a collection of snapshots including quite a few of them.

Is that creepy?

Well, whatever. What I had originally planned on telling you before I so rudely interrupted myself was that my brother, Kevin, was absolutely ecstatic to be invited. He's kind of socially inept and not often incorporated in Eric's plans or gatherings – and his interest in all things electronic is almost startling. So of course he was excited to go. And I really don't like being home alone, especially during a violent blizzard like the one that was brewing that night.

Of course Kelsey was there. She seems to have sort of an alliance with Eric. The two are close and often seen together, although they've made a habit of insulting eachother and arguing. Not the kind of heated debate Eric might have with Wendy, but intense arguments that tend to drag on for as long as forty minutes. But I like Kelsey, because she doesn't sugar coat things and can be a source of morbid entertainment.

When I arrived, she was slapping Stan's hand away from a vacant PS3 controller. "Wait your turn, Marsh." She barked, and promptly sunk into the couch to play.

Stan only rolled his eyes, seemingly unaffected – he probably knew better than to pick a fight with Kelsey by now. Instead, he strolled over to an area in the back of the den, where Kyle was having a conversation with Wendy and Ellie.

Ellie had a lanky arm playfully draped across Wendy's narrow shoulders, a characteristically wide smile playing on her lips. Although I'd never spoken to Wendy, her group seemed less intimidating of the rest of the party. I sauntered over.

"Hey!" Ellie greeted warmly, and removed her arm from Wendy's frame to wrap it around mine in a proper hug. She always seems happy to see me. It's sweet. "I didn't think you'd show up."

"I wasn't going to," I admitted, stuffing my hands into the pockets of my oversized cardigan. "But, um. Kevin wanted to see the TV."

"The rest of us came here to socialize," Ellie stated. "I mean – not that your brother isn't social—"

"No, it's okay." I interrupted. "He really isn't."

Stan laughed at this, and I smiled in appreciation.

It wasn't long before I made myself absent, uninterested in the way their conversation extended into one regarding a movie I hadn't seen. The startlingly pale eyes of Elena Cohen caught my attention, and I made it a point to at least say hi. Unsurprisingly, she was tucked into a chair in the corner of the living room, contentedly observing Eric's party.

I've always found her to be an interesting character. She has a very dark and formal exterior and keeps herself painfully closed in on terms of relationships – be they friendly or romantic. Elena rarely speaks; the only reason I'm acquainted with her at all is due to her unique sense of fashion; I'll have her model for me on occasion. She really is an interesting subject.

"Enjoying the party?" I inquired, and she shrugged.

"I suppose. It's alright. Craig Tucker is a fuckwit."

Her invariable deadpan never swayed through such comments, which I've always found hilarious. I laughed and she merely shot me a look of bewilderment. I was able to capture said expression with my camera before ambling down to Eric's basement.

It was slightly darker than the first floor and there was a very thin haze of smoke coating the atmosphere. I instantly expected Kenny to be the culprit, but saw Marissa with a cigarette in-between her lips instead.

"I thought you quit," I stated, taking a seat next to her on Eric's old couch.

She blew a cloud of nicotine into the air. "Fuckin' David, man. Keeps these things in the house; it's too tempting."

I knew that wasn't it. "Is your mom stressing you out…?"

Marissa probably wouldn't have answered anyway, but she didn't have to. Kenny quickly appeared beside her and snatched the cigarette from her hand before taking a long drag.

"Fuck. Yes." He praised, likely having withdrawal considering the likeliness of cigarettes being out of his budget. Smoothly, he placed it between her ruby red lips with a cheeky grin. Marissa removed the nicotine from her mouth.

"_Ask_ first!" She lectured, and Kenny rolled his eyes in response.

She gave him a playful shove, and he reciprocated by grabbing the cigarette and bolting across the room. Marissa immediately stood from the couch and chased after him. Although it was incredibly amusing, sitting on a couch in a smoky basement was kind of awkward.

Luckily, the awkward's antonym appeared beside me in the form of Sawyer Thompson. I really like Sawyer, because he always makes it a point to make sure I'm comfortable – he has the kind of outgoing and friendly personality that allows one to do so.

"Man!" He exclaimed, stretching casually so that his arm rested over the back panel of the couch. "I was playing air hockey with Kenny, and he totally ditched me when he got a whiff of Marissa's cigs."

"Maybe he doesn't smoke often anymore?" I considered aloud. Realizing the basement was so dim, I placed my camera back in my pocket.

"Nah, Kenny's from the hood." Sawyer opposed, and I giggled at his word choice (the hood – you know, since he's so white). "He's probably got a hook up. I think he's just trying to get with Marissa."

"Do you think he likes her?" It's really hard to tell with someone as flirtatious as Kenny.

"Nah. I think he wants to get with her." Sawyer grinned in an ironic fashion. "Ha, no, I'm kidding. Maybe he does – but it's kind of hard for Kenny to stick to one person. I've known him long enough to realize that."

I hummed in confirmation, and soon Kenny and Marissa called Sawyer over for a game of Foosball. I waved him off just in time to see Sarah Lily Martin pulling Kyle downstairs with an excited smile gracing her exotic features.

She swiftly let go of Kyle and tackled me into a tight embrace. Like Ellie, Sarah gives proper hugs – which is certainly a good thing, because she's hugging people often.

"Where's Stan?" I asked. As you probably already know, it's uncommon to see Kyle without Stan, or vice versa. It isn't as if they're dependant on one another, because they can certainly function without one another (at least from what I've gathered), but long-term super best friends are expected to enjoy each other's company.

"Discussing football with Clyde," Kyle explained. "I got bored."

"It's okay; I rescued him." Sarah declared.

"Hm," Kyle looked contemplative. "I wonder if Stan would be okay down here."

I blinked. "What do you mean?"

"He has asthma," Kyle explained. I thought he was going to speak further, until everything went black.

At first, I totally thought I was blind, and I started freaking out. Somebody screamed, and I heard a lot of swearing coming from upstairs.

"The power's out."

* * *

YEAHHH, OKAY. So I've introduced a bit of the plot and most of the OCs.

Did I do alright with them? Is there anything else you'd like me to add in, anything you want to see…? I aim to please!

Tell me what you thought because I THINK YOU'RE IMPORTANT.


	3. Momentarily Blind

So you've seen the introduction. I'm really glad that you liked it! Remember, I'm not going to overcrowd the story with OCs – they will be present, but not prominent because I am going to try o focus on the canon characters that Matt and Trey have given me to work with. Lol.

ALRIGHT OKAY WELL I HOPE YOU LIKE THIS PART REGARDLESS.

* * *

When it's approximately ten at night and there's no electricity, it's dark. Especially in a windowless basement. It's meticulously terrifying when accompanied by faint but consecutive screams and a slowly intensifying smoky odor.

"God _damn it_," I heard someone complain. Marissa flicked on her lighter, and I looked to my left to see Cassidy slam her sketchbook shut. "I can't draw in the dark!"

"You can't do much of anything in the dark," I heard Kyle retort. He flipped open his cell phone and used it as a flashlight as he made his way back upstairs. The rest of us followed.

Eric's living room had a slightly lighter hue to it than the basement, but not enough to make a significant difference.

"Cartman. Where are your flashlights?" Wendy asked.

"Tch. I dunno, hoe." Eric answered.

"It's your house!" Ellie exclaimed.

"Not like we ever use them," Eric reasoned.

Kelsey slapped him. "Don't be an asshole, Cartman. You've probably got _some _fucking idea; tell us where to look."

"Bitch, I do what I want!"

The lights flickered before faltering again, re-rendering the moon as our only light source. I fidgeted with my camera strap.

And another scream sounded.

"Oh my God, will you all just shut the fuck up for _one second_? The power's out, and crying about it isn't going to turn the lights back on so just fucking _deal_." Kelsey snapped.

"I could care less about the lights," Sawyer said, his tone borderline frantic. "I'm more concerned about the _corpse_."

My breath caught in my throat, and I turned to see the victim – whom, predictably, was Kenny McCormick with a stapler shoved into his chest. Really. Who kills someone with a stapler?

Elena Wren Cohen – who, coincidentally, was nowhere to be found.

"Fuckin' asshole," Marissa nagged and flicked the ash from her cigarette onto Kenny's dead body, knowing he'd be revived within a matter of hours.

"Oh, hell no." Eric protested. "I am _not_ having bloodstains all over my goddamn carpet. Shit smells disgusting. Kahl, take Kenny outside."

"You little bitch, do it yourself." Kelsey ordered.

"Fuck no!" Eric denied.

"I'm not dragging Kenny's corpse into a blizzard, fatass." Kyle refused.

Somehow, Kyle ended up going back on his word. I wasn't paying attention so I'm not exactly sure what convinced him – the point is that he returned after about forty minutes, his clothes completely soaked through. It was really cute, because Stan took off his jacket and gave it to Kyle (which didn't do much to quell the shivering, but it was still totally sweet).

Resourcefully, Cassidy used the light from her phone to finish a drawing. Idly, Craig took the art book from her hands.

"Hey!" She dissented. "I wasn't finished!"

"These are pretty good," He commented with a characteristic air of nonchalance, ignoring her irritated protest. He stopped at her latest sketch and pointed. "Is that supposed to be Kyle…?"

Annoyed, Cassidy snatched back the notebook and scowled. "I wasn't finished!"

"Hey Stan, check this out." Craig beckoned. "This chick's drawing pictures of your boyfriend."

"Kyle isn't my boyfriend!" Stan retorted immediately.

Sarah shot me a bewildered look. "I thought they were…?"

I shrugged.

"Dude, Stan, he might as well be." Ellie encouraged. "Your boyfriend, I mean. It isn't like you don't already act like it—"

Electricity interrupted Stan's oncoming realization, and the room brightened drastically. Eric's new television switched on and Ellie's potential monologue was drowned out by the radical sounds Call of Duty, blasting from Eric's new speakers. Kelsey rushed back to the game before anyone else had a chance to.

"Has anyone seen Elena? You know. Since the murder." Rikkie wondered aloud, but the soft tone of her voice went unnoticed. The danger of the unanswered question bothered me a lot, but I wasn't one to get in the way of Kelsey's gaming.

Nearly thirty minutes went by before I noticed that the temperature in Eric's house had yet to rise – although an absence of heat is to be expected during a power outage, it doesn't often stay so cold once the electricity returns.

I wasn't the only one to become aware of the potentially rigid conditions; Stan soon spoke up regarding them.

Eric shrugged. "Heater's probably busted. Happens a lot when we lose power."

"Cartman, it's fucking freezing." Kyle acknowledged, although he was probably far more perceptive than Stan and I on the matter, considering how long he was exposed to the blizzard outside.

"Your hair's still wet," Stan observed. Kyle ran his fingers through his thick, frizzy ocher locks and frowned deeply.

"Can someone start a fire?" Sawyer requested. Marissa tossed her lighter over to him.

"Thompson, I swear to God, if you burn my house down—" Eric started.

"Calm down," The freckled teen coaxed with a cocky grin. "I know what I'm doing."

As Sawyer proceeded to try and work Eric's fireplace, I brought Sarah to get a report on the condition of the blizzard.

And as expected, the provision was dire. A mountain of snow reaching higher than my waist blockaded all exits ("Close the door! You're letting the fucking heat out!") and the roads were nearly iced over.

We would have to spend the night.

* * *

Hmm, so. I'm not entirely satisfied with this, and again, I'm sorry if you didn't see what you wanted to or if your OC wasn't as included as much as you'd like. I'm trying, I promise!

Any requests of what you'd like to happen? Really, I aim to please!


	4. Predictable

One or two more chapters after this one, because it really doesn't have much of a point (like most of what I write). I love writing OC stories but I'm too worried that I won't be able to please everyone or I won't evenly include the OCs et cetera. Lol.

* * *

"Mom, I'm sorry! Shit! It's not like I can leave the house, what am I supposed to do?" Marissa stepped into the kitchen with an irritated expression and her cell phone pressed to her ear. "Really. Well, I'm sorry that there's a blizzard tonight! … Yeah, fuck you too!" She snapped the device shut and swiftly lit a cigarette.

Cassidy didn't look up from her drawing (which she had covered with her arm and refused to let anybody see until she was finished), and I eyed Marissa disapprovingly.

"Aren't you supposed to like… not smoke?" I asked.

"Tell Stan to stay out of the kitchen," Marissa responded swiftly.

"Men aren't supposed to be in the kitchen," I added. Really, they aren't. That's where women belong – but that's a different rant for a different time. I could talk for hours on the subject of misogyny.

"Are Kyle's eyes green or gray?" Cassidy interrupted.

Bewildered, I replied, "Um. Green, I think."

"More of a teal color, actually." Sarah intervened.

"Whatever, I'll just use both." Cassidy decided.

Sarah, Marissa and I didn't waste time in crowding around Cassidy, who seemed to be in the final stage of completing her sketch. She had illustrated a scene of two slender boys kissing, one with side swept raven hair and one with a messy head of ocher curls – Stan and Kyle.

Sawyer peered over my shoulders as he leaned in to hug me from behind – in a friendly manner, of course; and he commented, "That's kind of weird, dude. That's kind of what they look like right now."

"Are you kidding me?" Cassidy said in an excited tone. "Yes. Oh _hell_ yes, I am so good. Bitches, praise my all-knowing psychic brain!"

"Oh, shut up." Marissa teased with a roll of her eyes, and Cassidy thwacked her with the sketchbook. "We all knew it was going to happen eventually."

I don't care how creepy this might sound. Really, I don't. But I had to see this for myself, of course, and capture such a starved moment on film. Because that's just what I do. That's not creepy, right?

Whatever, suck my balls.

And it was so worth it, too. They weren't necessarily being discreet, but it wasn't nearly as bad as Bebe and Clyde had been when they were dating two months ago. Kyle had unexpectedly dominated the kiss; Stan was pressed against the wall with Kyle's hands on his waist, his own arms wrapped around Kyle's neck.

"Get a fucking room!" Kelsey yelled from the couch.

Impressed, Rikkie raised her eyebrows. "It looks like they've… _practiced_ before."

"That is so gay," Craig remarked.

"It's cute!" Sarah gushed.

"Well, there's one way to stay warm." Ellie observed.

Wendy pursed her lips, clearly uncomfortable watching her ex in someone else's embrace – especially one of another boy. I mean, I totally don't ever talk to Wendy – she's too much of a girl – but it really wasn't hard to figure out that she had yet to get over Stan. They'd only broken up two weeks prior.

Ellie seemed to notice this, and lead Wendy into the basement in an attempt to distract. Marissa followed, given the opportunity to smoke openly without risking Stan's health.

I took several shots of the deeply immersed couple. Once they controlled their hormones enough to pull away from eachother, Kyle looked at the observers with a disapproving expression. Stan only looked embarrassed.

"Um," Stan mumbled, and Kyle managed to shoo us away. Come on, what did they expect? When two hot boys kiss, they should expect an audience. Case and point.


	5. Anti Climactic

I'm SORRY for the super, SUPER long wait in between updates. I can't be bothered because my interest in the fandom has dwindled almost completely. However, I do feel compelled to finish what I start, especially when I have such an amazing audience. I suppose this'll be the last chapter. I know. I'm just as sad as you guys.

I wish I was inclined to write more, and I do sincerely apologize for the hideously short length of this chapter.

* * *

"So, Stan and Kyle are definitely still making out upstairs." Sawyer announced as he descended into the basement. Most of the lights were off, and the majority of the party was lazing miscellaneously over the floor and furniture.

"Sluts," Marissa commented in a tone that was far from malicious. "Are Eric and Kelsey still up there, too?"

"Nobody told me this was a make out party..." Clyde remarked.

"Ha! You wish." Ellie retorted. She was sitting on the floor against the side of the couch, and Wendy, who was uncharacteristically quiet, was resting her head against Ellie's shoulder. Discreetly, I managed to get a shot of it. Which was actually kind of lucky, because Wendy sat up a few minutes after.

Ellie turned to her ebony-haired companion. "You okay?"

Wendy's gaze was focused on the Saxony carpeted floor. "I'm fine," She said dejectedly.

"You wanna talk about it, or…?" Ellie spoke, sounding indifferent but supportive.

"I'm fine," Wendy repeated, the words tumbling out of her mouth quicker than they had before. "I'm okay," she insisted when Ellie pulled her into an awkward side-hug. "Stan can do what he wants, we're broken up."

"I'm sorry," Ellie offered.

"I'm not," Wendy whispered, almost erotically, and I turned my attention elsewhere.

Elsewhere being Sarah, who had apparently been inquiring about my brother for the past five minutes.

"Oh, um. Probably still upstairs, impervious to all the gay." I answered. "Or still distracted by Eric's TV." Figures.

"Hot damn!" I turned to see Clyde's encouraging grin aimed at Ellie and Wendy. "It _is_ a make-out party!"

"Dude, Clyde, not cool. Give them some privacy!" Marissa scolded.

So much kissing was actually beginning to make me uncomfortable. "…I'm going to get a soda." I announced, and ambled up the stairs.

Eric's living room was dark, and I switched on a light so I wouldn't trip on my way to the kitchen. In the hallway, Stan and Kyle had fallen asleep, facing each other, and had somehow been covered with a blanket. Although they were dozing on the floor, someone at least had the decency to make sure they wouldn't freeze. How sweet. I snapped a picture.

* * *

Shitty, unresolved ending. I'M SORRY, EVERYONE. I'm seriously like, so sorry. I wish I could have ended this better, but I just can't be bothered.


End file.
